When The World Was Young

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I fell in a dream and hurt myself, but I did not wake. I lucidly dreamt for hours on end.

The good old times, when we were youthful, when the world was young and the sun was soft on our skin…

Ariadne approaches me with her solemn gaze and looks at my feet. Move, she tells me. From that one word I know that the time has come for a stern sequence of events to occur. Ariadne tells me that we can no longer do as we please. The journey which has always been a single step must finally end. Ariadne stops and turns her back on me. Grapes fall from the rough sky, roaring like timid tigers in front of a threat. Upon hitting the ground, the grapes turn to dry raisins. Ariadne goes away, taking silent steps into the past, into the time when we felt high in the deepest valley; she treads with embracing steps on dreams and memories of the time when the world was young.

Uncontrollable and volatile, random and wild, the once-untamed spirit now tells me to abandon all hope of defying the world around me with unpredictable footsteps. She walks away while battering a gong with her wooden hand. The sharp sound echoes throughout the landscape.

Cynthia comes driving through, the car disintegrating as gears change. Black smoke fumes from the exhaust. Beside her sits Braidy, her long hair disappearing under the seat. They come out of the car and their feet elongate as if they’ve just mounted their wooden stilt legs. They look towards the evening sky and tell me, the way is high, but your eyes have always been on the ground. They never look down, but keep on going higher and higher.  Their legs quake, but their tall bodies remain as steady as thick tree trunks effortlessly blocking the wind passing between two mountains. Ripe avocados rain and smash and splatter on the ground; a maestro mounts an imaginary helm and conducts a symphony. The girls sing to the tune, It’s time to get rid of interpretations and believe facts.

Chaotic and open-minded, once causing havoc and controversy with word-play and mind-boggling ambiguity, they now tell me to accept the facts I come across. Their legs shake as they are engrossed in the soils of time, digging deep into the time when the world was young. Suddenly the stilts fall and the two girls jump on hidden trapeze hung in the sky; arrogantly catching on to nothingness and aerially flipping around in perfect circles, a trapeze appearing wherever they want it to appear. The fascism of imagination controls my mind with imagined facts which can only exist if believed in. They wail and scream and giggle and titter high up in the sky. Imagination will not spare me.

Night-time sheaths the hot rays of the sun and veils the eyes with its humid arrival. Fallen leaves crack and break beneath the feet of someone approaching. I close my eyes trying to find a place to hide, yet promising myself a searing pain. Fear projects itself on eyelids as Selene, who I promised to sleep without closing my eyes. She looks at me with contempt for having broken my promise. You betrayed our beginning, she says. She shines a bright light and forces me to open my eyes again, only to see her in front of me, wearing a white glowing robe adorned with half-moons.

She takes out a large mirror effortlessly from her wooden chariot. Look, her voice commands. I look into the mirror but I see no eyes, no mouth, no nose; I see no face, but the back of my head, looking at the mirror which Selene holds, only to look at it again, and again, eternally and abysmally. You have fought monsters and now you become one like them. She places me in the dark abyss which language cannot describe, which my mind cannot ever reach its end. I keep on staring at the image of myself staring at the image of myself infinitely repeating. But in each repetition, the only difference is Selene’s eyes that slightly become jovial with every repetition. And now I know that they belong to the time when the world was young.

Ariadne stands in front of me with her wooden arm; Cynthia and Braidy with their wooden legs; Selene with her wooden chariot, raisins on the ground and split avocados on the ground. They smile at me, telling me to move on, to lose, accept the credo of death, to suspend growth, to stop development and continuously repeat everything over and over again. But I won’t let it drag me down.

What a time it was, when moments of joy ran through us like broken shards of glass, bleeding sweet ecstasy; when we chewed each other like boxes of chocolate and were never afraid to refuse a bitter piece; when delight was sustainable; when we’d hold on to each other in times of trouble like small children hanging on to their mothers. I won’t leave that.

The time when the world was young, when a mistake created a fun memory, and the spirit of lightness made us laugh at tragic plays and tragic wakes.

I wake. Hazel eyes look at me astounded. I never thought I’d see your face like it used to be, she tells me and pours me a glass of seasoned wine; I laugh.

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